And now I shall not leave this realm of boyhood, or suffer my hero to slip away from this gala-time of his life, without a fair look at that Home where his present pleasures lie, and where all his dreams begin and end.

Little does the boy know, as the tide of years drifts by, floating him out insensibly from the harbor of his home upon the great sea of life,—what joys, what opportunities, what affections, are slipping from him into the shades of that inexorable Past, where no man can go save on the wings of his dreams. Little does he think—and God be praised that the thought does not sink deep lines in his young forehead!—as he leans upon the lap of his mother, with his eye turned to her in some earnest pleading for a fancied pleasure of the hour, or in some important story of his griefs, that such sharing of his sorrows, and such sympathy with his wishes, he will find nowhere again.

Little does he imagine that the fond Nelly, ever thoughtful of his pleasure, ever smiling away his griefs, will soon be beyond the reach of either, and that the waves of the years, which come rocking so gently under him, will soon toss her far away upon the great swell of life.

But now you are there. The firelight glimmers upon the walls of your cherished home, like the Vestal fire of old upon the figures of adoring virgins, or like the flame of Hebrew sacrifice, whose incense bore hearts to Heaven. The big chair of your father is drawn to its wonted corner by the chimney-side; his head, just touched with gray, lies back upon its oaken top. Little Nelly leans upon his knee, looking up for some reply to her girlish questionings. Opposite sits your mother: her figure is thin, her look cheerful, yet subdued; her arm perhaps resting on your shoulder, as she talks to you in tones of tender admonition of the days that are to come.

The cat is purring on the hearth; the clock, that ticked so plainly when Charlie died, is ticking on the mantel still. The great table in the middle of the room with its books and work waits only for the lighting of the evening lamp, to see a return to its stores of embroidery, and of story.

Upon a little stand under the mirror, which catches now and then a flicker of the firelight, and makes it play wantonly over the ceiling, lies that big book reverenced of your New-England parents,—the Family Bible. It is a ponderous square volume, with heavy silver clasps that you have often pressed open for a look at its quaint old pictures, or for a study of those prettily bordered pages which lie between the Testaments, and which hold the Family Record.

There are the Births,—your father's, and your mother's; it seems as if they were born a long time ago; and even your own date of birth appears an almost incredible distance back. Then there are the marriages,—only one as yet; and your mother's maiden name looks oddly to you: it is hard to think of her as any one else than your doting parent. You wonder if your name will ever come under that paging; and wonder, though you scarce whisper the wonder to yourself, how another name would look, just below yours,—such a name, for instance, as Fanny, or as Miss Margaret Boyne!

Last of all come the Deaths,—only one. Poor Charlie! How it looks?—"Died 12 September 18—Charles Henry, aged four years." You know just how it looks. You have turned to it often; there you seem to be joined to him, though only by the turning of a leaf. And over your thoughts, as you look at that page of the record, there sometimes wanders a vague shadowy fear, which will come,—that your own name may soon be there. You try to drop the notion, as if it were not fairly your own; you affect to slight it, as you would slight a boy who presumed on your acquaintance, but whom you have no desire to know. It is a common thing, you will find, with our world to decline familiarity with those ideas that fright us.

Yet your mother—how strange it is!—has no fears of such dark fancies. Even now as you stand beside her, and as the twilight deepens in the room, her low, silvery voice is stealing upon your ear, telling you that she cannot be long with you; that the time is coming when you must be guided by your own judgment, and struggle with the world unaided by the friends of your boyhood. There is a little pride, and a great deal more of anxiety, in your thoughts now, as you look steadfastly into the home blaze, while those delicate fingers, so tender of your happiness, play with the locks upon your brow.

----To struggle with the world,—that is a proud thing; to struggle alone,—there lies the doubt! Then crowds in swift upon the calm of boyhood the first anxious thought of youth; then chases over the sky of Spring the first heated and wrathful cloud of Summer.

But the lamps are now lit in the little parlor, and they shed a soft haze to the farthest corner of the room; while the firelight streams over the floor, where puss lies purring. Little Madge is there; she has dropped in softly with her mother, and Nelly has welcomed her with a bound and with a kiss. Jenny has not so rosy a cheek as Madge. But Jenny with her love-notes, and her languishing dark eye, you think of as a lady; and the thought of her is a constant drain upon your sentiment. As for Madge,—that girl Madge, whom you know so well,—you think of her as a sister; and yet—it is very odd—you look at her far oftener than you do at Nelly!

Frank too has come in to have a game with you at draughts; and he is in capital spirits, all brisk and glowing with his evening's walk. He—bless his honest heart!—never observes that you arrange the board very adroitly, so that you may keep half an eye upon Madge, as she sits yonder beside Nelly. Nor does he once notice your blush as you catch her eye when she raises her head to fling back the ringlets, and then with a sly look at you bends a most earnest gaze upon the board, as if she were especially interested in the disposition of the men.

You catch a little of the spirit of coquetry yourself,—(what a native growth it is!)—and if she lift her eyes when you are gazing at her, you very suddenly divert your look to the cat at her feet, and remark to your friend Frank in an easy off-hand way—how still the cat is lying!

And Frank turns—thinking probably, if he thinks at all about it, that cats are very apt to lie still when they sleep.

As for Nelly, half neglected by your thought as well as by your eye, while mischievous-looking Madge is sitting by her, you little know as yet what kindness, what gentleness, you are careless of. Few loves in life, and you will learn it before life is done, can balance the lost love of a sister.

As for your parents, in the intervals of the game you listen dreamily to their talk with the mother of Madge,—good Mrs. Boyne. It floats over your mind, as you rest your chin upon your clenched hand, like a strain of old familiar music,—a household strain that seems to belong to the habit of your ear,—a strain that will linger about it melodiously for many years to come,—a strain that will be recalled long time hence, when life is earnest and its cares heavy, with tears of regret and with sighs of bitterness.

By-and-by your game is done; and other games, in which join Nelly (the tears come when you write her name now!) and Madge, (the smiles come when you look on her then,) stretch out that sweet eventide of Home, until the lamp flickers, and you speak your friends—adieu. To Madge, it is said boldly,—a boldness put on to conceal a little lurking tremor; but there is no tremor in the home good-night.

---- Aye, my boy, kiss your mother,—kiss her again; fondle your sweet Nelly; pass your little hand through the gray locks of your father; love them dearly while you can! Make your good-nights linger and make your adieus long, and sweet, and often repeated. Love with your whole soul,—Father, Mother, and Sister,—for these loves shall die!

----Not indeed in thought,—God be thanked! Nor yet in tears,—for He is merciful! But they shall die, as the leaves die,—die, as Spring dies into the heat and ripeness of Summer, and as boyhood dies into the elasticity and ambition of youth. Death, Distance, and Time shall each one of them dig graves for your affections; but this you do not know, nor can know, until the story of your life is ended.

The dreams of riches, of love, of voyage, of learning, that light up the boy age with splendor, will pass on and over into the hotter dreams of youth. Spring buds and blossoms, under the glowing sun of April, nurture at their heart those firstlings of fruit which the heat of summer shall ripen.

You little know—and for this you may well thank Heaven—that you are leaving the Spring of life, and that you are floating fast from the shady sources of your years into heat, bustle, and storm. Your dreams are now faint, flickering shadows, that play like fire-flies in the coppices of leafy June. They have no rule but the rule of infantile desire; they have no joys to promise greater than the joys that belong to your passing life; they have no terrors but such terrors as the darkness of a Spring night makes. They do not take hold on your soul as the dreams of youth and manhood will do.

Your highest hope is shadowed in a cheerful, boyish home. You wish no friends but the friends of boyhood; no sister but your fond Nelly; none to love better than the playful Madge.

You forget, Clarence, that the Spring with you is the Spring with them, and that the storms of Summer may chase wide shadows over your path and over theirs. And you forget that Summer is even now lowering with its mist, and with its scorching rays, upon the hem of your flowery May!

----The hands of the old clock upon the mantel, that ticked off the hours when Charlie sighed and when Charlie died, draw on toward midnight. The shadows that the fire-flame makes grow dimmer and dimmer. And thus it is that Home, boy home, passes away forever,—like the swaying of a pendulum,—like the fading of a shadow on the floor!